


Intoxicate Me with Lavender Dreams

by vostara



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, questionable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vostara/pseuds/vostara
Summary: [Afterlife AU] in which reader longs to be reunited with her lost lover.Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Female Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	Intoxicate Me with Lavender Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> "This is where love blossomed."

This new world is a void; a place without scent, touch, sound, light, taste.

You expected this isolation, this deprivation of your senses.

You expected nothingness.

A simple cease of your existence.

But you catch a whiff, a hint of lavender that begins to surround you, consume you, overwhelm you. It is far from unpleasant, no, this smell is soothing, comforting. It welcomes back the memories that you have attempted to bury, deep inside of yourself, over and over again. Memories that you have clung to, dug your fingers into, latched onto as if they were your most valued possessions, your greatest treasures.

Lavender awakens memories of your lover, of your dearly departed.

Reminds you of the way he would surprise you with dried wildflowers. Flowers that had been accumulated during his time spent away from the camp. Flowers that had been carefully pressed between the pages of his notebook. Flowers that he had plucked for you, knowing that in return you would pepper him with intoxicating kisses. And that you would spend the night together, limbs tangled beneath a pile of worn, torn blankets.

Lavender reminds you of him, of Arthur Morgan.

You feel grass press against your bare feet. It is cold, damp from the dusting of water that coats the earth. And when a cool breeze sweeps across the exposed skin of your neck and arms, a shiver races down, along the curve of your spine. The soft fabric, the well-worn cotton of your long dress, conforms itself to wrap around the side of your legs. It holds you, clings to you, praying to not be swept away by the wind.

And you hear the wind, whispering, as it whips by your ears. You hear the grass rustling. The lavender plants swaying in sync with the breeze, giving the flowers beside them a quick, soft kiss as they brush against one another. In the pauses, in the gaps where the breeze is gone, where the grass is still, there are birds. They begin with a faint noise, the beginning notes of a long song. The volume ascends, louder and louder, until it is a crescendo of chirping.

Then this world illuminates.

You release a gasp, an instinctual response to the colors popping into your vision. You can see the world in front of you. There is an ocean of purple flowers. An ocean that is in the process of overtaking the grass that has dared to break through soil, grass that has dared to grow in the spaces between the lavender plants.

You know this place, this meadow tucked away in a valley between the mountains.

This is where love blossomed.

Where Arthur had hesitated, for just a fraction of moment, before reaching out for your hand. Where calloused fingers had rubbed against your skin, as the man stunned you with his secret, his confession. Where he uttered a sentence, uttered words you never anticipated hearing for yourself.

In this field, this purple paradise of your beloved lavender flowers, Arthur had told you that he loved you. That he was not a good man, that he could never repent for all of the pain he has caused. That he would never deserve love in return, and yet, he still ached for an ounce of yours. That he would understand if his feelings were not returned, would never be returned.

Your response was silence.

A moment to process a truth that you had somehow overlooked.

Arthur… loved you.

His words were clear, straight-forward, but you found yourself unable to comprehend what was being said. He loved you? But for how long? When did it start?

Would it end?

Did signs of his love begin when he first started to bring you flowers? Did it begin with the small gifts that you had deemed as nothing more than mere proof of platonic affection? Since Arthur had known about your love of flowers, had known that these gifts would bring you a touch of joy in the most awful of days.

When did his affection shift?

When did he realize that his feelings extended beyond friendship?

The sketches. Did they give it away? Those portraits of you that he once had tried to conceal inside of his notebook. Portraits you had managed to capture a glimpse of while he was sleeping. Or perhaps he knew, not in a moment of tender affection, but rather in an instance of violence. When he had beaten several men in a Valentine saloon, men that had pursued you, men that had ignored your polite declines for their advances.

But in the end, your utter oblivious nature did not mask your own feelings. You were not unsure of your affections for Arthur. You may have dismissed signs, brushed away the romantic undertones that were never as subtle as you pretended them to be. You had simply ignored love, subconsciously believing it to be an impossibility.

The truth is that you did love him.

And you still do.

God, you miss him.

You miss the way his beard would scratch against your skin as he planted kisses against the sides of your cheeks and neck. You miss the way his body would radiate heat, keeping you cozy and comfortable during the winter months. And you miss the lingering smell of cigarette smoke embedded into his clothing.

You long to see him again, to feel his body pressed against yours.

You long to tell him that you love him. To tell him that you are sorry, that his death was your fault. That the guilt of living makes you feel as though you were his executioner. If only you had pushed him a little harder, been insistent, had begged him to runaway with you when you still had the chance. If only you had fought harder, had not allowed him to win this one argument.

Life does not feel the same without him; it feels too empty, too pointless.

The Van der Linde gang is gone.

Your family is gone.

Everyone is either dead or alone, off to pursue a life with new accommodations, new goals, new desires.

But this new life was lonely and forced you to live with a wound that time could never heal.

It was just too unbearable.

Silence befalls this world, before a voice interrupts this temporary solace.

It calls out to you, uttering your name in a mixture of surprise and the desire that coexists with the feeling of longing. This voice is familiar, laced with a gruffness that had always fueled the butterflies hiding inside of your heart.

It is a sound that you have not heard in over a year.

And you turn to look at where the voice originates, certain that nothing, no one, will be there. That his voice is nothing more than a hallucination, a punishment for the sin you have committed.

But when you turn, you see him.

You see his slightly overgrown brunette hair and the matching stubble along his jaw. You recognize his black hat and every blemish that time has etched into the leather.

He smiles and takes a step forward, stretching his right hand towards you. “You’re here,” he says.

And though his words painted with love and joy, there is a trickle of grief that leaks through the tiny cracks. For he knows what it means for you to be here, to be reunited with him. He knows the tragedy that comes with seeing your face almost as youthful as the day he left you.

“Arthur,” you whimper. You grab his hand, pulling it to rest against your cheek. “I missed you,” you struggle to the say the words, choking on them as they stumble through your lips.

With the touch of his skin, you smile, know that this is real. Arthur is real, with you, right in front of you. You have reunited, returned to your home. And neither time, nor pain, has severed your ties to each other. Your bond, your love, your trust, could never tainted, could never be erased.

The man pulls you closer to him, desperate to feel your lips against his own.

The kiss tastes exactly as it does in your memories.

Traces of whiskey consumed, combined with an underlying note of tobacco.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: hello~ thank you for reading this fic! if you enjoyed what you read, please considering giving this piece a like, kudos, and/or comment. i am a small author, so any and all responses boost my confidence and let me know that people are interested in my work.
> 
> Tumblr: Vostara  
> Twitter: VostaraFics


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